


Luxuria

by AndrogynousInk



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga), Death Note: Another Note, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: A/B/O, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Oral Sex, PWP, Reader-Insert, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-24 19:52:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12019809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndrogynousInk/pseuds/AndrogynousInk
Summary: Or, a study in the numerous ways to engage in sex.Female!Reader x VariousFeel free to leave requests in the comments!





	1. Reconstruction || Alpha!Overhaul/Omega!Reader

_"When I can't breathe, I won't ask you to stop."_  
— The Neighbourhood

Sometimes the scent of blood haunts you still. You had stood beside the previous _wakagashira_ as he breathed his last, listening with trepidation as he named a new head for the Eight Precepts of Death, the faction to which you belonged. Many in the Yakuza had laughed when your _Kyodai_ promoted an omega to a team that was as loyal as it was lethally efficient, yet he had seen beyond the suppressants and small stature and named you worthy of standing by his side. It was a position that you had fought many a bitter battle for; when he was no more than ash to be given to the wind, it was the position you lost to the one they called Mimic. Choking on bile with lungs full of blood and pus, an order had been given by the one you trusted most of all, and it was one that was ignored as soon as he died.

The Eight Precepts of Death. Of all those within the group, you found that you could only tolerate Rappa. Like you, he had little respect for your new leader beyond admiration for his fighting capabilities. The gargantuan man was keener than he let on, and quickly appointed himself as your protector when he caught the faintest whiff of one of your suppressed heats. Surrounded by killers and thieves as you were, this earnest display of kindness from an alpha reminded you that beauty could exist in a world so cruel. It wasn't long before his scent — sweat and dirt and evergreen — clung to you like a second skin. The two of you were a far cry from mates, yet it was with him that you felt safest. Many were the times when you could be seen sitting on his shoulder, a position that quickly became your preferred place to be.

So, when his large hands close around your waist and lift you so that he can place you on the ground, you study him with mild confusion. He kneels in front of you, letting you place your hand against the front of his mask. "Overhole wants me and that Tengai bastard to talk or somethin'. There's gonna be some strong people comin' here real soon, and I'm gonna fight 'em!"

His enthusiasm elicits a small smile from you in response. He is never truly happy unless he is fighting, so you cannot be worried for him. You will not be. Instead of speaking, you pat the beak that covers his face lightly to show that you understand. A thick finger pushes a wayward lock of hair from your eyes, a low rumble resonating within his chest. It is not possessive nor is it reassuring. It is merely a farewell given the only way he's comfortable. Rappa is almost to the end of the hall when he stops, half-turning his head to regard you over his shoulder. For a moment, framed in the harsh light of the fluorescents overhead, he seems larger than life. Then he speaks, and discomfort replaces your previous feeling of peace.

"Oh, yeah. Before I forget, Overhole wanted ta see you, too."

You nod to show that you've heard him, though you refuse to move until his form is lost around one of the many corners. Usually, whenever you are summoned, it's to deal with some minor inconvenience while Mimic hovers about your shoulders, critiquing every decision you make. Perhaps it's due to your past standing, but you don't deal well with such micromanaging, and the idea that your afternoon is going to be wasted seeing to food preparations or some other inane things leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. Still, as any more delay will lead to a fierce scolding, you pivot on your heels and make your way deeper into the labyrinth of corridors that lead to the lounge where Overhaul conducts most of his business. When you enter, the young boss is the only one occupying the room, lithe form settled onto one of the couches in a pose that is both relaxed and commandeering. He smells of rust and rum and tangerine peels, all nearly buried beneath the bite of antiseptic, a cocktail that threatens to overwhelm you. In an attempt to remain unaffected, you take small breaths through your nose.

Keeping your voice polite, you ask, "You wanted to see me?"

"Hm." The way his amber eyes study you makes you uneasy. You know too well what can happen to an unbonded omega in an organization like this, and there is no alpha more dangerous than Overhaul. "Mimic tells me that you've been spending quite a lot of time in Rappa's company."

You're tempted to shrug, but keep the disrespectful motion to yourself. "I like Rappa. He's honest."

Ochre eyes narrow the slightest bit at your flippancy. "I wonder . . . Is that all that is?" He rises gracefully to his feet, shoving his hands in his pockets. "You _reek_ of him. It's . . . unclean."

Unbidden, heat rises in your cheeks at his insinuation. As selfish as it may be, you had been using Rappa's scent to cloak your own, to hide the way your heats, even with suppressants, caused something that alphas were drawn to radiate from you. You had no other intentions with the brawler, other than perhaps friendship, yet it's clear now that doing such a thing would cause speculation about whether or not you were the beta you claimed to be. Overhaul easily closes the distance between the two of you, stepping gracefully around the coffee table, until he looms over you, trapping you between him and the unforgiving metal of the door. He is so close that you could kiss the tip of his mask if you so desired, and one of his hands slides from his jacket to grip your chin and forcefully turn your head, revealing the smooth expanse of your neck.

"I found something . . . interesting in the old man's files," he says coolly, "about an omega who'd shared sake with my predecessor. At first, I refused to believe it. How could he even consider doing something so _filthy_? But it happened, and _you_ are that omega, aren't you?"

He is close, _too_ close; all you can smell is him, and it causes a warmth to pool low in your stomach. As if he senses this sudden change — you aren't presenting, but you're damn close to it — he releases you and steps away, letting out a noise of derision. Before he can say anything else, knowing that you'll pay for your insubordination later, you fling the door open and all but run from the lounge. You're maybe two hallways away from your quarters when a cramp causes you to stumble and rest against the wall. If you'd been keeping track correctly, your next heat wasn't due until next week, and yet . . . Another wave of pain radiates from your abdomen, and you stifle a slew of curses aimed at everyone and everything as you struggle back to the safety of your room. It is cool and dark, and the bed is as close to a nest as you will ever let yourself get.

Clothes litter the floor as you undress and make your way to the inviting mattress. Covered with sheets of finest silk, with plush pillows and sinfully soft blankets scattered across its surface, it is the one place you feel truly safe in these uneasy times when you cannot trust yourself. Taking suppressants now would be useless, and you have no motivation to open the bottom drawer of your nightstand to find a toy that suits your mood. Instead, you force yourself back to your feet and head into the bathroom to take a cold shower and a few sleeping pills. They'll get you through the beginning stages, but, when it truly gets bad, you'll have no choice but to either take care of it yourself or suffer through it. You _refuse_ to submit to an alpha after all you've done to rise this far.

You have slept for perhaps three hours when you wake, burning from the inside out with slick coating your thighs. Groaning, you remove yourself from the haven of your bed to take yet another shower and change the sheets. The pain by this point is almost unbearable, and it is all you can do to collapse onto the partially made bed, whining quietly as you roll over. It's _never_ been this bad before. Were your suppressants tampered with? Or was it due to your sudden, forced proximity to an alpha that you'd always done your best to avoid. Could merely his scent alone induce this? If so, how were you supposed to continue to function as one of the Eight Precepts of Death? So caught up are you in your musings that you fail to hear the door opening or the finality of the lock as it clicks into place. It's only when _that_ scent, citrus and copper and spice, hits you with the force of a truck that you realize that you aren't alone.

Overhaul stands at the foot of your bed, studying you coldly as you jolt forward to snag a blanket and drape it around yourself. You're still struggling to find your voice when he shrugs out of his jacket, fingers reaching up to loosen the knot of his tie. You track his movements, hyper aware of the sounds of cloth rustling, yet he does nothing more than pop the button on his collar. Part of you, the part that remembers all of your misgivings, your bitterness, tells you in a whisper that's lost beneath the rasp of your breathing that this is _not_ a good idea. If you follow the path of so many before you, you will lose everything and become nothing more or less than the whore of a boss, respected to your face and mocked behind your back. When he moves to take off the mask hiding the lower portion of his face, you stand, halting his movements as he watches you.

"Get out." It is barely there, little more than a whisper, but you manage to push through your needs to speak. When one of his brows cocks in patronizing amusement, anger drowns out lust. "I have worked too hard to be reduced to little more than a consort by an alpha who has done nothing to earn my time. Get. Out."

His voice is amusement masked by curiosity. "Would you prefer that I summon Rappa?"

Later, you will wonder that he didn't kill you on the spot, but all you can think of then are the numerous times other alphas had tried to take advantage of you, only to be driven off by your Quirk; without truly thinking beyond the most basic _make him leave_ , you lunge forward, shadows coalescing around your hand until they form a dagger, which you swing at his smug, partially covered face. One of his hands whips up to catch your wrist, its twin closing about your throat as he shoves you against a bedpost, your blanket and his mask falling to the floor. Gone is the self-satisfied smirk and the cruel joy. All that he exudes now is rage and a lust so potent that it threatens to drown you. You struggle to regain your footing, aiming to kick him as you do so, but he shoves one of his legs between your thighs, fully pinning you between his body and the bed.

"That . . . was a very foolish thing to do, _omega_."

The hidden growl on the last word is thunder and crashing metal, something that is entirely _alpha_ , and you bite back a whine and the urge to bare your throat. His gaze is burning where it lands on your skin, searing you with things unspoken and a want that cannot be entirely denied. Still, your pride will not allow you to grovel at his feet, so you whip the shadows at the bed post, slicing through it and allowing you to fall back onto the mattress, which you scramble up to put some distance between yourself and this unstable man who looks as though he wants nothing more than to devour you whole. Overhaul kicks off his shoes, strolling leisurely around the bed until he stands next to you; when you move to throw yourself off the other side, he catches a fistful of your hair and jerks you back, ignoring your pained yelp as he forces you into a position that it perilously close to presenting.

"I wondered," he all but purrs, "why it was that the old boss was so particular about your placement. Why your scent was so muted in contrast to those around you, so easily hidden behind perfumes and shampoos. Did you do this for him, _omega_? Was that why you were so distraught when he died?"

The accusation stings more than you're willing to admit, and you manage to grit out, "No."

The grip on your hair loosens, only for that hand to curl once more around your throat, lifting you onto your knees until your back is pressed against the musculature of his chest. "Good. You belong to _me_ , little omega, and no one else. Not that fool Rappa, nor anyone else who desires you."

"Why?" The question could be interpreted as _why me_ or _why are you doing this_ , and he chooses to answer both.

"You aren't tainted like the rest." His short hair tickles your ear as he leans in to press his nose against the side of your neck. "Your scent is . . . clean. Pure."

When he lets his teeth graze the bonding gland hidden just beneath the surface, you arch, a low whimper bubbling in your throat as your heat returns with a vengeance. Overhauls groans behind you, and you feel the hot length of his cock against your ass when he grinds against you. It's all you can do to gather your wits enough to ask, "Are you going to mark me?" There is fear in that inquiry, fear of mockery and of loss and of being locked away like a doll.

"Yes," he answers simply, sounding as though the answer surprises him. There is a moment's pause before he releases you, and you hear the faint rustling of his shirt as he works his way through the buttons. "Present yourself, omega."

You wanted to refuse, you'll tell yourself later, but the truth is that there is a magnetism to him that has caught hold of you as easily as it did the others, so you brace yourself on your elbows, resting your head on your forearms. A gloved knuckle brushes against the inside of your thigh, smearing the slick there even as he unbuckles his belt. You expect this to be something merciless and fast, yet he does nothing else but ghost feather-light touches along the apex of your thighs, occasionally tracing a barely there pressure across your slit. A knee presses your legs further apart so he can settle between them, the fabric of his trousers unpleasant where it grazes your skin; the discomfort is forgotten when one of his fingers finds your entrance and presses inside, curling, hunting for that bundle of nerves that will drive you ever closer to the edge. He works you deftly, playing your nerves as though you were an instrument, until you orgasm around his finger, feeling so bereft and hollow without the sensation of a knot to accompany it.

"Look at you," he rasps, "so filthy." He continues his motions, watching as you tremble beneath him, knowing what you need and denying it. He wants you to submit to him so completely that there can never be any doubt as to who you belong to. "What do you want, omega? Tell me."

Whatever response you had is lost in a soft cry when a second digit joins the first, stretching you in a way that is both satisfying and unfulfilling. "You, I want . . ." Another cry leaves you when his thumb presses agonizing circles against your clit.

"Speak up."

It's a trap, you realize belatedly, biting down on your tongue to keep your pleas at bay. When you deny him your voice, Overhaul grows rougher, impatient. He breaks you over and over again, littering bites and bruises along your shoulders and down your back every time you refuse to answer the way he wants. You think you hear him curse once through the haze of pain and pleasure suffocating you, and then he withdraws, sitting on the edge of the bed with his back facing you. A brightly-colored koi swims along his spine, shrouded in water and clouds, and you trace the contour of it with your eyes as your collapse, tears blurring your vision. Why hasn't he taken you yet? Is this a cruel punishment for your earlier disregard for him?

"Over—"

"Come here," he says at last, "on your knees."

Swallowing thickly, you do as you're told, kneeling between his legs and staring up at him. One of his hand reaches out to cradle the back of your head, tugging you closer, while he uses the other to brace himself against the mattress. You cannot read his face as he stares at you, so you reach up, intending to undo the button of his trousers, only for him to smack your hand away. When his gaze drifts, taking in the heaving of your chest and the slick that drips onto the floor beneath you, he gives a command that you almost miss at first. You want to cry when it registers, knowing that it only serves to torture you more, but you rock back to spread your legs and dip your hand between them, toying almost desperately with your clit. As you do, Overhaul stands and makes his way to the nightstand, and you hear the sound of a drawer opening, followed but a low, thoughtful noise.

He returns with a collar, black leather with a silver ring, and a matching leash, which he sets in front of you after telling you to put them on. You balk immediately at the idea, but all semblance of indignation flees you when he unsnaps his pants and pushes them down just far enough to reveal his cock, hard and heavy against his stomach. This time, you obey once the order is given, and he wraps the leather strap around his fist and yanks until you're forced to straddle his hips, whimpering when the head of his cock slides against your overly-sensitive clit. Before you can move, his free hand settles at your hip, holding you steady above him as he watches you. A tug at your collar forces you to look at him, and you're startled by the naked want on his usually stoic face.

His voice is a low rumble when he speaks. "Tell me, omega, who you belong to."

Your voice is small when you reply, "You, Overhaul."

"Then prove it."

He releases his hold on your hips, allowing you to grasp his cock and guide it to your entrance. When he only continues to watch you, you slide down, taking it into your aching cunt inch by torturous inch, head lolling back on your shoulders when you're finally seated. A quiet growl spurs you into action, and you brace yourself against his chest as you begin to move, a symphony of moans leaving you with every thrust. The hand holding the leash moves until it's behind your neck, tightening the collar against your throat until you can barely breathe, and you manage to whimper his name as stars dance behind your eyes. There is a snap of rubber before his fingers graze the collar, reducing it to ash, and then you are beneath him, crying out as he buries his teeth in your shoulder. You can feel his knot swelling, creating a friction that almost hurts, yet there is a hesitance when he brushes his lips over the gland in your neck. Without thinking, you bare it to him, incoherent pleas falling from your lips when his hips snap against yours, rutting incessantly in search of release.

Your orgasm rushes through you; there is a faint prick of pain as he bites down, leaving inarguable proof of your bond, and then he snarls out when his seed spills into you, knot locking the two of you together. It isn't exactly comfortable, his weight bearing down on you as you come down from your high, but you can't find it in you to complain. Overhaul's eyes are closed as he rests his forehead against your shoulder, so you use the opportunity to trace the intricate ink on his back, feeling the the rolling of his muscles beneath your fingertips as he breathes. Later, once the two of you are dressed once again, he leaves you to attend to business, though he makes sure that you are supplied with water and whatever else you need to recover. When you wake, all of your high-collared shirts have been replaced by ones that leave the mark on your throat on display, something that irritates you as much as it pleases you.

And, when you attend the meeting with that brat, Shigaraki Tomura, you take comfort in the way Overhaul's eyes track your every movement, especially the one that bares his mark to the other alpha.


	2. Desperation || Incubus!L/Reader

_"I've got some damn bad intentions."_  
— Niykee Heaton

You stare blankly at the man (?) slouched in front of you, dark eyes peering out from under equally dark hair as he waits patiently for you to come to terms with the situation. Or impatiently, if the way he swipes his thumb across his lower lip, briefly revealing canines too long to be natural as you watch, enthralled by the lazy movement, is any indication. There's no one else but him to blame for your inability to speak; how often did one find themselves face-to-face with a man claiming to be something that absolutely should not exist, forced into acceptance by the way he had entered their quarters? Wondering if your earlier shriek had drawn attention from the maids, you glance towards the door, only for too-thin fingers to turn your face back to his. That penetrating gaze lingers far longer than is proper or comfortable until it feels like a brand against your skin, and, in an attempt to buy yourself some time to _think_ , you reach for your dressing gown, halted by the monotone of his voice.

"I would appreciate it if you did not add unnecessary clothing, as I will only be removing it later."

How brash! Crossing your arms across your chest, you eye him with obvious disdain. "You act as though I've agreed to your ridiculous proposal."

What could have been the ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, even as he closes the distance, straightening slowly to loom over you. "You have yet to have me removed," he points out, and you scowl up at him, never one to be cowed.

"As if I would put one of the servants in the path of an obvious loon," you scoff, twisting away from him and taking in the storm raging outside. How, you wonder suddenly, had he managed to scale up to the fourth floor of your home without losing his grip or getting soaked in the downpour? Storing the thought away for later, you stride to the window, undoing the latch and pushing until it swings open, allowing the rain to fall on the settee. When you try to back away, you find your way blocked by a lithe body, slender hands settling on your hips and bunching the fabric of your night gown against his palms. You frown. "Please release me."

To your surprise, he does, and is even courteous enough to give you enough room to walk around him. A noise that isn't quite anything, one that's almost too soft to be heard, resonates when you settle on the edge of your bed, fingers toying with the fabric of your sheets as the crisp scent of a sudden fall deluge fills the room. Those black eyes are boring into your skin again, and you decide that it doesn't bother you quite as much as you pretend that it does. The rustling of denim catches your attention; when you lift your gaze to him, it's to find him standing barely an arm's reach away, so close that you could lift your hand and almost touch the white of his shirt. To him, the casual way you rest on the bed is a near invitation, a sign of permission granted, but rules and laws are as they are, so he must wait for you to acquiesce verbally before he can feed. He crouches in front of you, extending his arm, palm up, in a gesture that is earnest, if a little awkward.

You take him in, obsidian hair and slate eyes and skin that would put the finest of china to shame, the naked want concealed so carefully behind indifference, and let out a sigh. "So, you claim to be an incubus —"

"I am." When your worlds halt and you stare at him, mildly irritated, he lets his head lilt to the side. "It is not a claim. It's simply what I am."

"Fine. So you _are_ an incubus, and you came to me out of desperation because you need to, ah, _feed_."

His hair rustles when his head tilts the other way. "Correct."

"And if I let you?" The lack of a response makes you wonder if, perhaps, there's a reason why he seems to be starving. "What will happen then?"

"I will feed and be on my way. If you're concerned about after-effects, such as pregnancy, then know that cross-species breeding simply is not possible."

"Do you have a name?"

Storm-cloud hues narrow imperceptibly; he has no reason to be suspicious of the inquiry, as he knows that you are ignorant of just how jealously he and his kind guard their true epithets, yet it still makes him wary. After a moment's introspection, he intones, "Ryuzaki."

Before regret settles in, you crook a finger in his direction, beckoning him to you. It is a summons that Ryuzaki answers in his own way, kneeling between your legs and dragging the tips of lily-white digits along the supple flesh of your inner thighs. With him like this, you can smell the faintly sweet scent that emanates from his pores, and you tangle your fingers in his sinfully soft hair as he presses his nose to your cloth-covered heat. A soft mewl passes your lips when he drags his teeth over it, scraping along the line of your slit before he re-traces the motion with his tongue. There is nothing gentle about the way he pulls at the lace until it rips apart, yet he's careful when he uses his finger to part your labia so he can drag the flat of his tongue over your clit. That sable gaze studies your face, learning what you crave and what you loathe until you are pleading breathlessly with him, needing something only he can give.

Ryuzaki suckles that sensitive nub between his teeth, flicking it with the tip of his tongue before he dips lower, lazily fucking you with his mouth as you come apart in his grasp. He draws back, swiping the tang of you from his lips as if he cannot get enough of a flavor that is uniquely yours, something finer than the finest of wines. Sweat dots your skin, dapples the nape of your neck, yet he is relentless, fingers sliding through your slick folds to crook inside of you, stroking over your inner walls until you think you will shatter in a way that even his clever hands cannot fix. Every line of your body is taut, pushed to the breaking point, and then he laps at your clit and the Earth stops spinning as you ride through your second orgasm, close on the heels of your first. Your vision is hazy, breathing labored, so that you fail to notice the way he finds the sewing scissors on your dresser until he uses them to part the silk of your gown, exposing your heaving chest to his lascivious gaze.

You start to rise to scold him — that had been a gift, damn him — only to lose what little breath you'd regained when he fastens his lips over your nipple, one hand splaying on your back to arch you into the wet heat of his mouth while his unoccupied one rises to cup your neglected breast, pinching and rolling the other between his thumb and forefinger. Plaintive whimpers leave you with every torturous touch. Seeking to repay the torment (it is unfair that you must suffer while he remains unruffled), you slide a hand under the hem of his shirt, scratching lightly at his stomach as you quest lower to cup the firmness of his arousal through his jeans. A sonorous rumbling in his chest is all the warning you receive before he captures your wrists and pins them above your head, denim-cloaked erection rubbing against your slit with an almost unbearable friction.

In response, you undulate your hips, capturing his with your knees to keep him in place. Ryuzaki's stare is ravenous, intoxicating, and you find yourself wetting your lips, a silent plea for a kiss that he answers, crushing his lips against yours and sliding his tongue between your teeth. When you pull away, the burning in your lungs making you lightheaded, you manage to rasp out, "Clothes. Off."

He discards his shirt and pants with no hesitation, revealing the lean, sinewy body hidden beneath the baggy clothing, and you reach up to trace the dip of his collarbones and the line of his hips; unblinking, he watches you as you wrap your hand around the length of his cock, thumb smearing the liquid beading at the tip. His breath hitches when you slide off the edge of the bed, tongue lapping at the head of his cock once you're seated. Slender fingers tangle in your hair, tugging needily as you slowly engulf the length of him, hollowing your cheeks when you pull away, and it isn't long before he rolls his hips forward, impatient. You wouldn't quite call it _fucking_ , what he does to your mouth, but, by the time he pulls away, seed splattering across your nose and cheeks and dripping down onto your breasts, your lips are slick and swollen.

You think that he's done, but he surprises you by using a fragment of your nightgown to wipe off your face and chest before indicating that you should roll over onto your stomach. Confused, you follow his unspoken command, only to gasp when he grips your waist and pulls until you're braced on your forearms and knees, chest pressed to the bed. The languid way he shifts his hips against you, grinding his cock against your glistening slit, draws a breathy moan from you, and you press back against him, craving his touch. Ryuzaki pauses for a moment, thinking, and then his hips snap forward, burying his cock within your velveteen folds. A cacophony of carnal sounds fill the once silent room, skin on skin and the quiet pleas and words of encouragement and wanting.

Pleasure ripples beneath your flesh, back taut as a bowstring on the verge of breaking as he ruts against you, one hand plunging so he can tug your clit between his fingers, and the tension snaps, static dancing along your nerves as you come apart under his touches. Ryuzaki's teeth sink into the tender skin of your back as he finds his own release, hips rolling against your own, and he soothes the pain with kitten licks to the bruise forming along your spine. You expect him to get dressed and leave, yet he surprises you again when he merely disappears into the en suite bathroom long enough to get water running in the tub, and then he's back, studying you once more while his thumb traces the outline of his lower lip.

"Please get some rest, as we have until dawn to continue our rendezvous."


End file.
